Ars longa, vita brevis
by Qoc762
Summary: A famous artist's student suffers more than just a brush with death. Beckett and Castle try to get a clear picture of the situation. Follows on 'Stained', followed by 'A Message from Mercury'.


The first sign that something was amiss was the door being unlocked. Timothy Jensen removed the key wondering if today really was his day to prepare the studio, or if maybe one of the others had mixed up the dates.

The second sign was the odd smell underlying the usual odor of oil paint and varnish.

The third sign was the dead body lying in a pool of blood on the floor.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Medical Examiner Lanie Parrish demanded, as Beckett entered the large room on the former warehouse's top floor. "Shouldn't you be running a precinct?"

"Lieutenant Dean is holding the fort," Beckett answered and knelt down next to her friend. "And due to a little crime wave washing through the streets of the Twelfth, I had no detective to spare right now."

"My, aren't we eloquent today," Lanie dryly commented.

"Being married to a writer has its advantages," a voice from the doorway announced.

Lanie raised her eyebrows. "Reinforcement?"

"Two pairs of eyes ...," Beckett replied as her husband joined them. "What do we have here?"

"Kayla Rutherford, nineteen, killed by a several blows to the head with this," the M.E. pointed to a fire extinguisher, with blood, hair, and brain matter on its surface. "I need to take a closer look, but she's been hit at least four times."

"Someone was either angry," Castle concluded, "or wanted to make very sure the girl was really dead."

"The attack must have come out of the blue," Beckett said. "She hasn't a single defensive wound."

"The first blow probably came from behind," Lanie explained. "She fell down on her side or tried to roll over when the second one came. I don't think she moved after that."

"When do you think she was killed?" Beckett tried to picture Kayla Rutherford alive. At five four or five five she'd weighed about 140 pounds. Her dark hair was twisted into a braid that fell down below her shoulder blades, exposing delicate ears adorned with diamond studs that looked to be the real McCoy, as did the ruby ring on her right hand. The long-sleeved tee, blue jeans, and sneakers had certainly been bought at upscale boutiques.

"Rich and dead," Castle had noticed the same details, "equals one poor little girl."

"I'm estimating the time of death at somewhere between eight p.m. and one a.m.," Lanie proclaimed. "Unofficially, of course. I'll do the postmortem ASAP, but your crime wave has washed up several bodies on the morgue's doorstep."

"Ah, I like that one," Castle rummaged through his pockets for pen and paper.

Beckett got up and turned towards Officer Velazquez, who stood a few feet away, notebook in hand, ready to bring her up to speed on the facts dug out so far.

"You and Ridgewell were first on the scene?" Beckett asked, recalling Velazquez' partner posted at the elevator with the crime scene log. "Who called it in?"

"A Mr. Ruiz, at eight thirteen a.m.," Velazquez answered. "He lives down the hall with the owner of the studio, an artist called Halina Zamek."

"Halina Zamek?" Castle interrupted. "She had an exhibition at the MoMA last year."

"As Mr. Ruiz went past the studio, he noticed the door standing ajar, which it shouldn't," Velazquez went on unperturbed. "He looked in and saw this guy lying on the floor." She pointed discreetly at a pale blond man of about twenty-five sitting in the corner farthest from the body, being fussed over by a paramedic. "Timothy Jensen, a student of Ms. Zamek's. Apparently, he found the body, fainted, and hit his head."

"Where is Mr. Ruiz?" Beckett looked around in vain.

"He got blood on his clothes when checking the vic for vital signs and went to change. Not alone, of course. His clothes have been bagged."

"Was Kayla Rutherford a student, too?"

Velazquez nodded. The next moment her radio crackled, and she excused herself.

Beckett did a 360-degree visual of the studio. "I'm counting seven easels. There must be more than the two students we know about."

"Shall I ask the poor devil who stumbled over the body?" Castle offered. "He looks like he doesn't even know his own name though. Can't blame him."

"No need, Velazquez is coming back."

"Sorry, Captain, there's been trouble downstairs. A man who claims to work for Ms. Zamek tried to talk our guys into letting him come up. When they refused, he made a dash for the stairs and they had to cuff him. He's in a squad car, do you want to talk to him?"

"Let him cool down a bit," Beckett decided. "Have someone stay with him in case he says something useful. Is he the only one who tried to see Zamek? Other students maybe?"

"No, those are on the floor below," Velazquez informed them. "Five in all, three females, two males. We're holding them in an apartment they all share. They don't know what's up exactly, only that there's been an incident."

"Good job," Beckett commended the officer. "That leaves the artist herself. Any idea where she is?"

"In her apartment. According to Mr. Ruiz, she was still asleep when he left for work. I don't know whether she's up by now."

"Okay, we'll begin with her and Mr. Ruiz. Tell CSU to get started as soon as Dr. Parrish is done. And find somewhere you can take Mr. Jensen, I don't want him to get in the way."

"Or to faint again," Castle added, looking at the young man sympathetically.

* * *

Under an officer's watchful eyes, a man in his fifties was pacing the floor of the kitchen-living room combo next door. He barely reached the five nine mark, but was powerfully built, just beginning to get soft around the middle. His nose had been broken at least twice, screaming 'boxer'.

"At last," he exclaimed when he saw Beckett and Castle coming in. "What can you tell me?"

"With the police it's usually the other way round," Castle pointed out. "What can you tell us?"

"But I've told the officer in charge everything already," the man protested, "the short woman. Why don't you ask her?"

"Because that's not the way it works," Beckett patiently explained. "I am Captain Beckett, this is Mr. Castle, who consults with the police. Mr. Ruiz, I presume."

"And by the way, she's the one in charge," Castle added.

"Okay, okay," Ruiz gave in with ill grace. "Yes, I am Joseph Ruiz and I found the girl. I was on my way to the stairs when I noticed the door to the studio standing open, which is against the rules. I went in to have a word with whoever was there and nearly stumbled over the boy. His name's Tim, I think. Next thing I saw was Kayla lying dead in the middle of the room and blood all over the place. I knew she was dead but checked for a pulse anyway, then I called nine-one-one and waited for your people to come. Which they did in a surprisingly short time."

"Why is it against the rules to leave the door open?" Beckett asked. "And whose rules are they?"

"Halina's, of course," Ruiz answered as if he were stating the obvious. "There's a connecting door between the studio and this place, and the doorman only works from nine to five. We decided to not make it easy for burglars, reporters or deranged fans."

"Did you have problems with intruders in the past?"

"No, of course not, 'cause everybody follows the rules."

It took Castle some effort not to roll his eyes at this sample of logical thinking.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Ruiz?" Beckett's polite tone of voice hid, as Castle knew very well, a growing impatience.

"I'm a booking agent and have my own company, Ruiz Talent. Mostly actors, some models."

"Fashion models or art models?" Castle put in.

"Fashion."

"Getting back to when you found the body, did you notice anything else unusual? Is anything out of place or missing, as far as you know?" Beckett took over again.

"All I saw were the two kids on the floor and the blood," Ruiz replied. "I'm hardly ever inside the studio, so I couldn't tell you anyway. Look, can we wrap this up? I've told Halina and she needs me, so is there anything I can tell her that might reassure her?"

"Actually, we'd prefer to talk to her ourselves." There was an edge to Beckett's voice even Ruiz couldn't ignore. "Please ask her to join Mr. Castle and me."

"At least talk to her in her studio," he grumblingly acquiesced. "She'll be calmer there."

Beckett and Castle exchanged a look of utter disbelief.

"Ahm, the studio is still a crime scene ..." Beckett began.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, not the teaching studio," Ruiz interrupted her with exasperation. "Her private one. Follow me. And don't touch anything."

He led them through the kitchen area to a nondescript door that opened into a room approximately fifteen by eighteen feet in size, light streaming in through tall windows on two sides. The smell of oil paint and turpentine was inches away from cloying, but at least the characteristic odor of blood was absent. On the right side of the door was a wash basin with a single faucet. To the left there was another door Beckett guessed leading either to a storage room or a bathroom. Two thirds down the right hand wall was a gray metal door, presumably connecting the two studios, which in concert with the linoleum floor, the decade-old coat of light gray paint on the wall, and a simple hard back chair facing an empty easel gave the room a utilitarian feel. Offsetting this were about a dozen canvases of different size leaning against the walls, dominated by a vividly colored four-by-eight oil painting.

"I like this one," Castle announced. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Beckett said slowly, "it's fascinating in a rather disturbing way."

"High praise," a voice behind them acknowledged, "thank you, Captain Beckett."

Turning around, they came face to face with a pale, blond woman anywhere between forty-five and sixty. Joseph Ruiz hovered in the doorway like a father on his child's first day in kindergarten.

"Does it have a title?" Castle asked.

"'Goły gołąb w zwolnionym tempie'," the artist replied. "'Naked Dove in Slow-Motion'."

"I see," Castle said, who clearly didn't.

"As you've certainly guessed, I'm Halina Zamek," the woman introduced herself. "Thank you for seeing me here, though the seating arrangements aren't satisfactory. I'm usually alone. Joe, could you please get us two chairs from the kitchen?"

Ruiz opened his mouth as if to argue about the number of chairs but decided against it. He fetched two spindly folding chairs which he placed at a respectful distance opposite the hardback chair, moving the easel less than a foot to the side.

"Thank you, darling," Zamek waited until he had left the studio before she pushed her chair closer towards the others. "Please, have a seat."

Beckett and Castle followed her invitation, he with some caution.

"Did Mr. Ruiz tell you what happened?" Beckett asked.

"Yes," Zamek nodded sadly. "He said that poor Kayla was dead and Tim in a faint when he went into the studio, and that maybe Kayla fainted, too, and hit her head."

"It's not that harmless," Beckett suppressed a sigh at Ruiz' equivocation. "Ms. Rutherford was murdered."

"Oh my God!" the artist exclaimed in horror. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure," Beckett confirmed. "And therefore we need to talk to you about her and your other students now, I'm afraid."

"You don't think one of them killed her, do you?" Zamek protested. "That's impossible. They're just kids, and even more importantly, artists. We value life intensely because we see it in a special way. Things that may look ugly to you can be beautiful to us, and something you believe to be unimportant may become the center of our universes, at least temporarily. But most of all, we believe in life in all its variation, possibility, and infinity as our inner source, our inspiration and stimulation, journey and destination."

Zamek had risen from her chair, eyes flaming, hands gesturing to emphasize her words. Now she came to a halt, literally and figuratively, and slumped onto her chair again.

"I'm sorry if I came over all preachy," she said, her voice shaking a little, "but I just can't see how this could have happened."

"Murder is always difficult to absorb," Castle assured her. "All the more so if you knew the victim well."

"Tell us about Kayla," Beckett prompted Zamek, "and your other students. They live on the floor below, right?"

"Yes, they share a flat we've converted for that purpose," Zamek replied. "I take on six students every year, if possible three girls and three boys. In my experience that works out best."

"Excuse me," Castle interrupted, turning to his wife, "didn't Velazquez talk of seven students?"

Beckett started to skim through her notes, but Zamek saved her the trouble.

"You're right, of course," she admitted. "Kayla was an extra, so there are indeed seven students this year."

"But you weren't planning to take her on initially," Beckett concluded.

"No, I wasn't. Her grandfather asked me, and since I owe him a lot, I just couldn't refuse."

Beckett and Castle waited for her to continue, which she did after several seconds of silence.

"Paul Rutherford is a collector, one of the few who have money and an eye for art as well. When I came to New York in the early 1980s, he introduced me to several gallery owners here and in a dozen other cities all over the States. He helped me find my agent, gave me excellent financial advice, and we became friends. On top of all this, he sold me this apartment, the studio next door and the student's flat at a barely reasonable price and insisted on loaning me the money for it without interest."

"A very generous friend," Castle commented a little disbelieving.

"Yes, he is," Zamek retorted spiritedly. "When I paid back the last installment two years ago, he and his wife took us out for a celebratory dinner. That's the kind of person Paul is, and so is Geraldine, his wife."

"So you felt obliged to accept Kayla as a student," Beckett summarized, "but I assume she wasn't really qualified."

"That's right. Don't get me wrong, she's got a great technique and her grandfather's eye, but no artistic vision at all. She could be an art dealer, gallery owner or critic and would be great at it, but she isn't ready yet to admit to herself that she's a painter, not an artist." She abruptly stopped herself, then continued awkwardly. "I mean, she might have been. God, how am I going to tell Paul and Gerry? And her parents?"

"Don't worry about notifying the family, we will do that. But tell me about the other students. How did they feel about having someone around who wasn't in the same league? Did they realize it? And if so, did they feel that Kayla held them back? Where they annoyed at her getting a place in your class?"

"I don't see why they would," Zamek shrugged her shoulders. "Nobody lost their place because of her and I made sure they all get their share of my attention. She was younger than the others though, and a little naive sometimes, so there might have been a little … annoyance now and then, but nothing serious."

"Would you know about it?" Castle challenged her. "Do you see them a lot outside class?"

"I hold classes four days a week from nine a.m. to three p.m., and I can assure you that I'd have noticed any serious problems between my students. It would have affected their work. And if one of them had complained about Kayla, Nathan would have told me."

"Who's Nathan?" Beckett asked.

"My assistant, Nathan Young. He should be here by now. Where is he?"

She looked around as if expecting her assistant to materialize on cue.

"Does he live here, too?"

"No, he has a place in Union City. Why isn't he here? Do you think something has happened to him, too?" Zamek looked truly horrified.

Beckett had a pretty good idea as to the whereabouts of Nathan Young. "I guess he's been intercepted by the officers in the lobby," she said. "We'll have to talk to him, too. Does he have a key to the teaching studio, by the way?"

"Yes, of course."

"And who else?"

"Joe and I, naturally, and the students have one in their apartment. They take turns preparing the studio."

"I guess the door connecting the two studios is locked," Beckett got up as the other woman nodded. "Let me just make sure that it really is."

As she tried in vain to open the metal door, she noticed a key hanging on a nail next to it. "Is this the only key?" she asked.

"There must be a spare one somewhere," Zamek answered. "In the kitchen, I think. Is it important? Joe and I are the only ones who have keys to this place."

"Just routine questions," Beckett said smoothly, "and while we're at it, where you at home last night?"

"No, we were out. One of Joe's clients got a part in an Off-Off-Broadway show and invited us to the opening night. We arrived at the last moment and tried to make up for it by staying for an hour or so afterwards, so we got home a little after midnight and went straight to bed."

"What did you see?" Castle inquired. "And was it good?"

"It was ghastly," Zamek harshly proclaimed. "The best thing you can say about it is that they got through it in less than two hours. It's called 'Driftwood Correlation', whatever that's supposed to mean, and it runs at the Helios Theater, which has extremely uncomfortable seats to boot."

Castle could certainly relate to the latter complaint and was therefore ever so slightly relieved to have an excuse to get up when a scowling Joseph Ruiz walked in.

"I have an appointment I intend to keep," he declared, lifting his chin belligerently. "I'm going to leave now, and if you have any further questions, well, these will have to wait. The officer who's been breathing down my neck told me I'd have to clear it with you, but you'll have to put me under arrest if you want me to stay."

"Did you kill Kayla Rutherford?" Castle asked, with a patently insincere smile.

"What? No!" Ruiz sputtered, red-faced. "How dare you!"

"Then I don't think Captain Beckett has any intention of arresting you," Castle's smile got even sweeter. "Do you?"

"We will get in touch if we need additional information," Beckett told Ruiz. "Thank you for your help."

Unable to come up with a suitable retort, the man murmured a good-bye to his partner and left.

"Ms. Zamek," Beckett began, but the painter interrupted her.

"Do you really believe Joe murdered Kayla?" she asked incredulously. "That's as ridiculous as suspecting my students. Or me. You can't be serious."

Castle wondered why the improbability of an outsider getting in and killing the girl didn't seem to occur to Zamek. She was either that convinced of a break-in that she didn't bother to ask them about it or just too dazed to see that everything pointed to someone with a key to the studio as the murderer. Or maybe she put up an act because she herself had bashed in Kayla's head for reasons unknown.

"We are just beginning our investigation," Beckett answered. "That means we're gathering as much information as possible about everybody and everything. Building theories comes later. In other words, we don't suspect anybody but are keeping an open mind."

"Not exactly reassuring," Zamek grumbled.

"The innocent have nothing to fear," Castle said. Not daring to put the sturdiness of his chair to the test any longer, he once again stood in front of the vibrant painting he had admired before, missing the artist's icy glare and the exasperated look his wife gave him.

"Ms. Zamek," she picked up the interview, "did you see or hear anything unusual when you returned from the theater? Was the door to the studio closed? Did you meet anyone on your way up?"

"We met Tiffany at the elevator," Zamek closed her eyes. "I guess she'd been to the grocery store. We rode up together to the sixth floor where she got off. I don't remember paying any attention to the studio's door, but I'm sure we'd have noticed if it had been open."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Nothing. It was quiet as usual. We went straight to bed though, and our bedroom's at the other end of the apartment, so we wouldn't have heard anything once we were there."

Beckett had no problems believing that. In spite of the two studios sharing a wall, she hadn't heard anything from next door, where the CSU was at work.

"Are these walls soundproof?" she asked.

"No, just very thick," Zamek replied. "Um, when will we be done here? I should talk to my students, and I would really like to work a little. It helps me cope with difficult situations, you know."

"Just one last question. Did Kayla ever talk to you about problems she might have had, or people she thought didn't like her?"

"I encourage my students to put their personal problems into their art, not my ears. And although Kayla's grandfather told me about a boy she'd broken up with, that was months ago, and if he told me the boy's name, I don't remember it."

Beckett rose from her seat and thanked Zamek, who swiftly led the way to the apartment's door, closing it firmly behind them.

* * *

"Please, let it be Ruiz," Castle turned his gaze heavenwards. "He's such a jerk."

"He may be, but couldn't you have been less obvious about it?" Beckett turned to face him. "This could cost us their further cooperation, which we'll need in all likelihood."

"I tried to be 'bad cop' to your 'good cop'," Castle explained huffily.

"During the initial interview?"

"Okay, he annoyed me and I could have been a little more … diplomatic," Castle conceded. "But if he is our perp, rattling his cage might get him to incriminate himself. As impulsive as he is … hey, look who's here?"

Looking over his wife's shoulder, he'd spotted two familiar faces down the hall.

"Yo, Cap," Esposito announced their presence, as he and Ryan walked up to them, "Castle."

"We heard you were working solo," Ryan said with a provoking smile towards Castle, "so we decided to lend a hand."

"What about the carjacking case?" Beckett asked. "Did you make an arrest?"

"Well, not exactly," Ryan answered evasively, "but the guys are off the street."

Beckett raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"We got a partial print from their latest heist," Esposito duly reported, "and, not surprisingly, it was in the system."

"And now that we had a name, we only had to find out where the sleazebag was," Ryan added. "Which wasn't far away, as it turned out."

"About fifteen feet," Esposito specified. "He was in the box with Levy and Boyes."

"The shoot-out on Stuyvesant Square," Beckett deduced. "Those were the same guys?"

"It appears as if the two had a falling out over the proceeds of their labors," Ryan explained, "and according to Mr. Nice in the box, the now dead man decided to end their business partnership with a gun. Killing him was self-defense, of course."

"Sounds like you got lucky," Castle, still stung a little by Ryan's barb, remarked. "Made an easy catch."

"Unless you take into account that the carjackers wore gloves every time," Esposito shot back. "Getting a print was almost impossible."

"Not for us, though," Ryan said. "Xavi theorized that they would have drawn attention walking around gloved-up in this weather. So we worked our way through the tapes of every security cam in the vicinity of each of the eight crime scenes, and you wouldn't believe the number of those cams."

"At long last we made them out at a bus stop, waiting for their target," Esposito took over from his partner. "The camera was too far away to get a look at their faces, but what we did see was them putting on gloves right before starting their manoevre. And not only that, Eagle-Eye Ryan had noticed one crucial detail other people might have overlooked."

"There was a little old lady sitting on the bench at the bus stop, who dropped her cane," Ryan wound up the report, "and our perp picked it up, bare-handed. The lady is a fixture in the neighborhood, which helped tracking her down, and she was very happy to lend us her cane."

"I stand corrected," Castle declared with a humble bow. "This was a quest lesser men would have failed at."

"Great work, guys," the Captain lauded her detectives' efforts. "Unfortunately, there's no rest for the wicked."

She quickly summarized the results of the investigation so far and the four of them looked in on the crime scene. The dead body had been taken to the morgue, but several live bodies were busy measuring, dusting and scraping. One of them, CSU detective Baughman, came over.

"Not much to report at the moment," she said, anticipating Beckett's question. "Except for two things. The blood spatter indicates that the first blow was fatal. The perp slammed the extinguisher down perpendicularly afterwards, though with considerable force. And secondly, the extinguisher's handle and upper half were wiped clean, except for some minuscule blood drops. The killer probably got squeamish when it came to brain matter."

"It was too much to hope for prints," Castle commented. "This case shapes up to be challenging."

"There's always the chance of a confession," Ryan pointed out.

"Make that 'off chance' and I'm with you," Castle replied, "but my gut is telling me not to expect one."

"What did you have for breakfast?" Esposito quizzically asked.

"Let's see how we can divide the work," Beckett firmly interrupted their banter. "Espo, Ryan, talk to the students. I'd like to have your take on the group's dynamics, so question them together. We can always follow up with individual interviews later, if necessary. Castle and I are going to see if Mr. Jensen is able to tell us about his morning and will have a little heart-to-heart with the agitated young man downstairs later on."

* * *

The door to the students' apartment opened directly into a somewhat cramped kitchen. It seemed even smaller with the three young women and two men crowded around a table, and two officers, one female, one male, occupying what little room was left, looking very uncomfortable. To the left, a corridor ran almost the length of the apartment with several doors to the right, the nearest of those conspicuously newer than the others.

The addition of Esposito and Ryan had the kitchen almost bursting at the seams. Taking their cue from the detectives, the unis retreated a few feet into the hallway while the students demanded simultaneously.

"What's going on?"

"Why are you keeping us in here?"

"Where are Tim and Kayla?"

"Is something wrong with Halina?"

"Has the studio been broken into?"

"Was there a break-in at Halina's?"

"Why does nobody tell us anything?"

Ryan silenced them, holding up his hands.

"I'm Detective Ryan, this is Detective Esposito," he introduced them, "and we're very sorry to have to tell you that Ms. Rutherford is dead."

"She was murdered," Esposito clarified. "Mr. Jensen is taken care of by paramedics, since he was the one who found her."

After a moment of stunned silence, the five young people exclaimed in shock and horror, looking wide-eyed at Ryan and Esposito.

"Are you saying that Kayla's been lying dead in the hallway all this time?" a sharp-faced woman asked.

"You are …?" Ryan consulted a list of names one of the uniformed officers had given him.

"Nicole Bates," the woman answered.

"Ms. Rutherford was found in the teaching studio," Ryan explained, causing a round of gasps. "Does anyone have an idea what she was doing there?"

"It wasn't her turn to prepare the studio, was it?" a strongly built blond man asked and, glancing at Ryan's list, introduced himself as Jim Campbell.

"She must have gone upstairs very early," the second man, as dark and lean as Campbell was fair and burly said. "I've been right here since eight fifteen, having breakfast, and I haven't seen her."

"When was the last time you saw her, Mr. ...", Esposito asked.

"Kevin Fisher, and I'm not sure. We all left the atelier yesterday at five, as usual, and came back here."

He looked at the other four, who nodded.

"I don't think I saw her afterwards, but then I spent the evening in my room, reading."

"She was in the kitchen when we went out," Bates offered, nodding towards the only African American among them. "Tiff and I went to a reading at Bluestockings, that's a bookstore in the Village. We left a few minutes past six."

"Anyone else?" Ryan prompted to no avail. "Alright then, was any of you close to Kayla?"

The answer was a collective shake of the head.

"What do you know about her, then?"

Shrugs all around.

"Come on, guys, you've been living at close quarters with Kayla, not to mention the time you spent together in the atelier. At least you must have formed an opinion about her."

"Considering Kayla's hopes of us all becoming BFFs, we all know a lot about her family, her friends from high school, her favorite movies and whatnot." It was the first time that the third, very athletic woman, spoke. "But it's all superficial. Does it matter that she likes … liked 'The Danish Girl'?"

"Seems to me that she failed finding a friend among you," Esposito noted the obvious. "Why?"

"She tried too hard," the woman whose name the detectives had good reason to presume was Tiffany Bryant, replied, "and she was much younger than us."

"Not just in years," Bates added. "She sometimes reminded me of my cousin, and she's fourteen."

"In what way?"

"What she thought about this setup, for example. She expected a mixture of 'Zoey 101' and 'La Bohème', with us sharing secrets over canned beans and a bottle of cheap wine."

"And she constantly tried to ingratiate herself with Halina," Fisher complained, "wanted to be teacher's pet."

"Did it work?" Ryan asked.

The students responded with a chorus of nos.

"Halina's absolutely fair," the third woman, identified by way of exclusion as Erica Diaz, elaborated. "She never plays favorites. She even told us on our first day 'each of you is special and none of you is better than the others'. And that's exactly how she treats us."

"But Kayla's role was different from yours," Esposito pointed out, trying to unsettle them. "Ms. Zamek is a friend of Kayla's family and made special arrangements to take her on as a student. Just look around. I bet this used to be a big, comfortable kitchen before Kayla's room had to be partitioned off it."

"It was like this when we moved in," Campbell shrugged his shoulders. "We can't miss what we never had."

"Says the guy who's always griping about how we're all living on top of each other," Diaz scoffed.

"But I never blamed Kayla for it," Campbell replied with some heat, "whereas I clearly recall you fuming for days after she critiqued your still life."

"Of course I was mad. At myself because she was right!"

"And I thought it was because, quote, 'someone should have taught the little goose how to talk to grown-ups' unquote," Bates said mockingly.

"We all had Kayla stepping on our toes one time or another," Diaz snapped. "So don't pretend she didn't get on your nerves, too."

"Of course she did. But she really knew how to get under your skin, Erica."

"Stop bickering, it's not helpful," Fisher tried to intervene. "I don't think the police is interested in our petty grievances with Kayla."

"Oh, I believe that's exactly what they're interested in," Bryant piped up. "Like her observing you like an exotic but fascinating example of a different species."

"She would have gotten over it," Fisher said in exasperation and turned towards the detectives. "Kayla grew up in some small town in Wyoming or was it Montana? Anyway, I'm probably the first openly gay man she ever talked to, and with her being as subtle as a Carolina Reaper, it led to all sorts of silly questions. And yes, I once bitched about it to some of my compadres here and said something along the lines of how I would like to take her to a gay club. Which I never did or even seriously intended to. I was just letting off steam."

"Uh, before we go on pointing out each other's reasons for not joining Kayla's fan club," Campbell interjected, "you don't seriously believe one of us killed Kayla? 'Cause that would be ridiculous."

"Really, Jim, why would they think …," Tiffany Bryant broke off in mid-sentence. "My goodness, you actually do suspect us."

The students voiced their protest in a mix of indignation and disbelief.

"At the moment we don't know if someone is a witness, a suspect, or just happens to have been in the same building as Kayla," Ryan explained as the group had calmed down somewhat. "It's nothing personal."

"And to sort out which of these categories you fit in, it would be a great help if each of you could write down his or her whereabouts from five p.m. yesterday to this morning," Esposito added. "Note if and, whenever possible, when you spoke to or saw someone, known or unknown to you. These two officers will stay with you until you're done and collect your statements. Thank you for your cooperation."

* * *

"Now that was a waste of time," Castle remarked as the elevator took Beckett and him down to the ground floor. "Jensen hardly remembered his own name."

"We'll talk to him again tomorrow when the shock's worn off," Beckett replied. "Maybe Zamek's assistant has something to say."

The pair exited the elevator and walked over to the black-and-white where a uniformed officer with a menacing face watched over a thirtyish man in the backseat. A short exchange proved that his charge was indeed Nathan Young. Beckett opened the cruiser's door and introduced herself.

"Why am I under arrest?" Young demanded immediately. "And what's happening upstairs? Is Halina alright?"

"You've tried to breach the police's perimeter," Beckett reminded him calmly. "As to Ms. Zamek, she's reasonably well considering there's been a murder. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you can choose whether to answer them right here or at the station."

Young thought about it for a moment.

"Will you take the cuffs off?" he finally asked.

"As long as you behave yourself."

"Okay, let's get this over with."

Beckett uncuffed him. Young got out of the car with a petulant look still on his handsome face. "So who's dead?"

"You're not exactly a compassionate person," Castle commented.

"Since you've just told me that Halina's okay, it's reasonable to assume it's not someone she knows," Young countered. "Otherwise she wouldn't be. She's extremely sensitive."

"I'm sorry to have misled you ..." Beckett began but was interrupted immediately.

"What? Please tell me it's not Joe! Or one of the kids!"

"I'm afraid it is one of the students," Beckett told him. "Kayla Rutherford."

Young swayed a little and steadied himself against the cruiser.

"That's horrible," he whispered hoarsely. "How did it happen? Didn't you say she was murdered? Who would do something like that?"

"Could you get him some water?" Beckett asked her husband in a low voice.

"No, that's not necessary, I've got some in my satchel," Young declined. At a nod from Beckett, the uni hovering nearby retrieved a bag from the passenger seat and extracted a bottle of water. Zamek's assistant took a couple of greedy gulps.

"Kayla murdered?" he repeated. "It wasn't some kind of freak accident?"

'Like what?' Castle thought, 'stabbing herself to death with a paintbrush? Putting a dollop of cadmium red on her fries in lieu of ketchup? Mixing herself a gin and turpentine?'

"Definitely not," he said aloud.

"We're trying to create a timeline of Kayla's late afternoon and evening," Beckett explained. "What was she doing when you last saw her?"

"Cleaning up the studio with the others," Young answered. "She might have lagged behind when they left, she frequently did."

"On those occasions, was she trying to have a word with Ms. Zamek or were you the reason for her dawdling?" Castle asked.

"Me? No way. Halina's the one she wanted to see, to get a little extra attention."

"Did she ever succeed?"

"Of course not. You see, Halina teaches from nine to three, and the students stay on to work by themselves for another two hours, under my supervision. After they're gone, I lock up and go over to Halina's apartment to check if she needs me for anything. She never comes back into the teaching atelier and I never use the connecting door. Kayla probably didn't know this." Young shook his head. "Poor little girl."

"What about yesterday," Beckett inquired. "Did she leave at the same time as the others?"

"I think so, but I couldn't swear to it. There usually are a few things to take care of, like checking the supplies. After the first couple of times Kayla stuck around, I ignored her until she gave up."

"How long did you stay at Ms. Zamek's apartment?"

"I didn't. Go in I mean. I rang the bell and waited for maybe two minutes. If there's nothing further for me to do, Halina just turns the bell off. This way she doesn't get interrupted unnecessarily."

"So you left at …?"

"Five fifteen, five twenty."

"Did you see anyone on your way out?"

"Tim was at the Union Square station, taking the stairs to the downtown platform. I live in Union City, so I took the N train uptown."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No, he was a little ahead of me and I don't think he saw me. I try to avoid contact with the students outside the atelier anyway."

"Professional distance?" Castle asked.

"Mostly, yes," Young replied with a shrug, "and they'll be gone next June, with another bunch starting in September … they just come and go. And they're just so young!"

"Well, you're not that much older," Castle pointed out. "Less than ten years, I'd say."

"Yeah, I know, but this isn't about years," Young said somewhat pompously. "Maybe it's because I grew up here in the city and most of the students are from smaller towns."

Castle couldn't help himself. "That's to be expected with New York being the biggest city in the USA."

Young pouted. "We had a girl from Tokyo four years ago."

"When did you start working for Ms. Zamek?" Beckett cut in.

"Six years ago. My predecessor got married and moved to Europe, and Halina offered me the job."

"Did you know each other beforehand?" Castle asked.

"I wouldn't put it that way. I'd shown her my work and hoped she'd take me on as a student, but this wasn't to be. She opened my eyes to the fact that I am better qualified to recognize and interpret art than to create it myself."

"That must have been a huge disappointment," Castle sympathized. "Painful to deal with."

"It was hard at first," Young admitted, "but Halina was very gentle with me and helped me get over it by pointing out my strengths and how to use them. She and Joe even invited me to dinner a couple of times. So when she told me she needed an assistant, I didn't hesitate for a second, and I've never regretted it."

"Being the good observer you are, and having seen all those students come and go over the years must have made you a good judge of character," Beckett said. "You have surely formed an opinion about this year's … um ... lot. Could you describe their personalities to us? Just a few impressions."

"I can seize them up pretty well, I guess. Let me see … Jim Campbell is a whiner, always complaining. Erica Diaz doesn't hold back either, but, unlike Jim, never bitches about petty stuff. She's got quite a temperament, and a sharp tongue, too. Tiffany and Nicole could be twins, you'd never believe they just met some weeks ago. They're always whispering and giggling and trying to get Erica to explode. Timid Timmy is just that … timid. He keeps to himself, is eager to please and easy to deal with. Kevin Fisher, now he's a dark horse. Keeps himself in the background, watching the others. The only one who could rattle his cage was Kayla. At first I suspected him to be undercover for some rag, doing a piece on Halina."

"And Kayla?" Beckett prompted.

"Two words: 'too much'. Too eager to impress, too many smiles, too bubbly, too cute. I told you how she attempted to be singled out by Halina. Not that the others aren't vying for her attention, too, but they are far less blatant about it. And she was so very naive. I hate to say it ..." ('No, you don't!' Beckett thought) "... but she was a pain in the … uh ..."

"Ass," Castle helpfully supplied.

"Thank you for being so open," Beckett did not give in to the temptation to put the last word in audible quotation marks, having long ago accepted that the usual way of 'de mortuis nil nisi bonum' wasn't helpful in her line of work. "Just for the record, how did you spend the evening?"

"I was at home, at my desk. I do freelance work for several publishers, supplying technical drawings for manuals, textbooks, or magazines."

"Can anyone verify this?"

"My roommate works nights and was already gone when I got home, so no, I'm afraid not."

"Did you talk on the phone?" Castle prodded. "Order food, complain about a neighbor's stereo?"

"None of it. I was wearing headphones myself and was blind and deaf to the world around me, as they say."

"Okay, that's it for now," Beckett closed her notepad. "Though we may need to talk to you again in the next few days."

"Of course," Young nodded. "Am I free to check on Halina now? She must be devastated."

"Officer Gancitano will take you upstairs," Beckett replied.

"Make sure you follow his orders," Castle quipped, drawing the ghost of a smile from the still scowling cop.

"For all his impatience to see his beloved employer, the guy was rather enjoying himself," he said.

Beckett nodded and glanced at her watch.

"Time for me to be Captain again," she announced. "Are you going to wait for Espo and Ryan, or would you rather come with me to the precinct and get the murder board started?"

"Me starting on the murder board? All by my little self? You just made me an offer I cannot refuse."

* * *

"Yo, Castle. Messing with our murder board?" Esposito asked, as he and Ryan found Castle leaning against the latter's desk, staring at the whiteboard.

"Captain's orders," Castle explained. "What do you think of my handiwork?"

The two detectives studied the board in silence except for an intermittent grunt. Finally Ryan gave his verdict.

"It's adequate."

"'Adequate'? That's it?" Castle exclaimed. "Haven't you noticed the exact scaling of the timeline? You really need a twelve-inch ruler, by the way. And what about my use of different colors for the different states of information? Black means 'verified', green 'confirmation needed', and red 'can't be proved'."

"So each time we've checked something out we have to wipe it off and write it again in another color?"

"Oh. Ahem. You're right, that's a little … impractical."

"And what does 'jf eight' mean?" Esposito asked, pointing to a notation next to the name 'Joseph Ruiz'.

"That's a new unit for character evaluation I've invented," Castle's face brightened. "'Jf' stands for 'jerk factor', which is measured on a scale from zero to ten. I'm still working on a symbol that is expressive and yet tasteful. Any suggestions?"

"Yes: Remove it before anyone notices," Esposito tossed him a small sponge. "The Cap won't be happy, not to mention the Loo."

"But the timeline looks very good," Ryan said comfortingly, patting Castle's shoulder.

The trio was going over the students' written statements when Beckett joined them.

"Where are we with this case?" she asked.

"Nothing definite so far," Ryan answered. "Kayla Rutherford was last seen by Tiffany Bryant and Nicole Bates at six p.m., as they were leaving the apartment to attend a reading in the village. I called the bookstore and the owner was able to confirm their presence - they volunteer on Friday nights, so she knows them. The event was over at ten, but Bates and Bryant helped straighten up and left at eleven thirty. They were back home around midnight, Nicole a little earlier than Tiffany, who stopped at a grocery store. Lights were out in the kitchen, so they called it a night."

"Kevin Fisher spent the evening in his room, not seeing, hearing, or talking to anybody," Castle reported. "Just like the three wise monkeys."

"Campbell went for a run. Started at five twenty-four, finished at six thirty-three – he uses a running app and could provide us with details of his route if we are interested," Esposito continued. "Afterwards he took a shower, had a bite to eat in the kitchen, and watched baseball in his room. Pirates at Phillies. He remembers seeing Erica Diaz heading out at around seven. Diaz confirms this – both Campbell's presence and the time she left. She put two loads in at the laundromat on Thirteenth Street and walked around doing what she called 'twilight sketches'. Offers her sketch pad as prove. Came home at nine fifteen approximately and called her sister in Cleveland. They talked for maybe thirty minutes, then Diaz went to bed and fell asleep listening to an audio book – 'Shrill' by Lindy West. I left a message on the sister's cell to get in touch."

"For people sharing an apartment they don't see much of each other," Ryan commented.

"None of them mentions Timothy Jensen," Beckett noted. "What about Zamek and Ruiz?"

"Their story checks out," Ryan picked up a folder from his desk, "and I did an internet search on them."

"Give us the highlights."

Zamek was born in … um … 'Szczecin'," Ryan mangled the city's name.

"Szczecin," Castle corrected, "city in northern Poland, near the Baltic Sea."

"Whatever, she was born there in 1956. Went to Warsaw ..." thumbs-up from Castle, "in 1974 to study at the Academy of Fine Arts. Got recognized by critics early on and her works were exhibited in several countries within the Eastern Bloc. After being allowed to accept an invitation to give a lecture at the Royal Academy of Arts in The Hague in 1983, she didn't return to Poland but emigrated to the US. She taught at Hudson University from 1886 to 2004, setting up her own studio afterwards. Her paintings sell worldwide to museums and private collectors alike. As for Joseph Ruiz, aka 'Ruthless Joe Ruiz', he hails from Milwaukee. Born 1960, made a name for himself as a welterweight boxer in the Midwest, came to New York in the early eighties, and judging by the skimpy newspaper trail, enjoyed an undistinguished career in boxing. He founded Ruiz' Talent thirty-two years ago and according to his tax returns is a very successful entrepreneur. Though the only name I recognized from his client list is that of Morgan Morris."

"Who?" Esposito asked.

"Morgan Morris. The actress. Plays Tysu, Princess Kethony's handmaiden, on 'Kings of Edirgas'."

"Young, blond, cute?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Never heard of her."

"Any red flags?" Beckett cut in.

"Nothing at all."

"I checked our own files, too," Esposito said. "We've been called maybe three dozen times to the building in the past twenty years, but never to their or the students' apartment."

"I thought they had problems with fans and journalists," Castle wondered.

"If they did, they never reported it."

"So their precautions either work very well or are completely unnecessary," Ryan remarked.

"I'm guessing the latter," Castle replied. "It would add to Ruiz' already overblown sense of self-importance."

"Only these hypothetical troublemakers are after Zamek, not Ruiz," Beckett pointed out.

"Call it braggadocio by proxy then."

Ryan was about to ask for the definition of 'braggadocio' when a sharp kick from Esposito reminded him of his self-respect.

"I made a call to the Union City PD, asking them to check out the assistant's alibi," Beckett said. "The detective I spoke with didn't sound eager to help us out but promised to get back to us tomorrow. Okay, guys, check the students' alibis as best as you can, and call CSU. May they've got someth ..."

Her cell beeped.

"Yeah, Lanie," she answered it. "What's up?"

"Why aren't you at your desk?" the M.E. demanded.

"Who says I'm not?"

"I tried your landline, which you apparently forgot to divert to your mobile," her friend explained. "So where are you running around now, doing your detectives' work?"

"I'm a hands-on captain," Beckett refused to appraise Lanie of her whereabouts. "Is this a check-up call?"

"No, it's about Kayla Rutherford's TOD."

"You already did the PM? I thought you were swamped."

"I didn't and we are. I found a receipt with a time stamp in Kayla's pant pocket, according to which she bought a CD at the Best Buy on Union Square yesterday at eight forty-eight p.m. Receipt's on the way to CSU, but I thought you'd like a heads-up."

"Great. Thanks, Lanie!"

Beckett ended the call and added the information to the timeline.

"Ask CSU if they found the CD she bought in Kayla's room," she instructed Esposito and Ryan. "I don't think it was at the crime scene."

"On it," the two men accidentally chorused.

Fully expecting Castle to ask for an assignment, Beckett turned her attention towards her husband and found him staring transfixed at the whiteboard.

"Castle, are you on to something?" Esposito had noticed it, too.

"Maybe. Zamek started her private teaching in 2004, right?" Castle slowly said. "And she always takes on six students."

"Yeah, so what?" Ryan answered.

"That means that in her thirteenth year the unprecedented seventh student gets murdered," Castle triumphantly concluded. "You see? Seven and thirteen, two extremely mystical numbers."

After a moment of perplexed silence, Ryan and Esposito turned away with exasperated sighs, shaking their heads in capitulation to absurdity. Beckett returned her husband's beaming smile with a fondly amused one of her own.

"Your observation is noted," she diplomatically said. "Anything else?"

"No, not right now, but I'll give those numbers a little more thought. If you don't need my help at the moment, I'm going to head home to prepare dinner. You'll keep in mind that Alexis, Mother, and Hayley are coming over tonight?"

"I'll be on time."

"Good, because I've got a little surprise for the four of you."

Wiggling his eyebrows at his wife and his fingers at Esposito and Ryan, he left.

* * *

Two hours later, after receiving a call from the front desk, Beckett asked Dean into her office.

"A special visitor's on her way up," she explained, "and I'd like you to meet each other."

"Special in what way?" her Lieutenant asked.

"I want you to keep an open mind," Beckett answered. "I'll tell you anything you want to know afterwards, but for now it would be better if you'd get your impressions unaffected by my opinion."

A uniformed officer knocked, and on Beckett's 'come' ushered in a nervous-looking woman.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Franklin," Beckett greeted her in a professional tone of voice, gesturing towards the chairs in front of her desk. "Have a seat."

Ms. Franklin did as she was asked, while Dean placed the second chair at an angle to the desk and studied her discreetly. He saw an ordinary-looking woman he guessed to be about sixty-eight to seventy years old. She was of average height and weight, with recently dyed light brown hair, and gray eyes in a nondescript face. Dressed in dark designer slacks, an ivory-colored silk shirt, and a matching cardigan, she looked disheveled with her shirt buttoned up the wrong way, several strands of hair coming loose from a barrette, the light pink nail polish chipped on two fingers, and the lipstick slightly smudged.

"Let me introduce Lieutenant Dean," Beckett said, settling behind her desk. "Whenever I'm unavailable, he's the one you should talk to."

"Hello, Lieutenant," Franklin barely glanced at him. "Captain Beckett, I have to make a confession. The man who got killed under the FDR Drive at Avenue C – I did it. I stabbed him. He was the man who murdered my daughter, Allison."

"Tell us more about it," Beckett invited her. "How many times did you stab him? What kind of weapon did you use? Do you still have it?"

"I used the switchblade knife that I always carry around," Franklin answered. "I must have thrown it away, probably tossed it into the East River. It's all kind of hazy, because the moment I recognized him, everything inside me went cold and dark. All I know is that I woke up from my nap and remembered that I killed him. Maybe the details will come back to me after a while."

Dean didn't know what to make of the situation and especially Beckett's way of handling it. He knew for sure that the Captain had realized that Franklin's 'confession' was false, since the real perpetrator had been arrested earlier in the day, admitting the act but claiming self-defense.

"Ms. Franklin …," Beckett calmly said.

"Please call me Trudy."

"Well, Trudy, I have good news. You didn't kill the man. You must have read about him in the paper's and had a very vivid dream afterwards."

"Oh," the woman seemed to shrink a little. "Are you sure?"

"One-hundred percent. Another person has been apprehended and was able to give a detailed account of the incident."

Trudy Franklin sat motionless for a while. When she finally got up, she stood before the desk looking like a little child caught out misbehaving.

"I don't know what came over me," she stammered. "Please accept my apologies for wasting your time. I'm so sorry."

"There's no need for that," Beckett assured her, raising too. "I'm glad we were able to clear everything up quickly. An officer will take you downstairs and call a cab to take you home."

"Thank you, Captain," Franklin whispered. "You are very kind. But since I'm here – have you found out anything about Allison's death?"

"I'm sorry, Trudy, there's no news," Beckett told her gently. "But you have my word that if there will be something, I will call you immediately."

She opened the door where the same officer who had accompanied Franklin on her way up was waiting. Apologizing once more Trudy Franklin left Beckett's office.

Dean raised his eyebrows quizzically when Beckett had closed the door and turned back to him.

"Do you treat everyone who gives a false confession like that?"

"As I said, Trudy Franklin's case is special," Beckett replied. "She's not seeking attention, in case you're wondering. She made her first confession ten years ago and has come back three or four times a year since then, always convinced that she'd finally found her daughter's murderer, and killed him. We're usually able to prove her wrong very quickly, sometimes, like today, because we've already caught the perp, at other times because of witnesses or evidence. On some occasions we had to check her whereabouts at the time of the stabbings – it's always stabbings – but luckily for us Trudy is a creature of habit, so by now we know who to ask about her alibi."

"I still don't see how she's so different from other, well, loonies."

"For one thing, there's the rareness of her disorder. She not only confabulates, she won't remember it at all in a few hours. Next time she meets you, which will happen soon, you'll be a total stranger to her."

"She remembered you."

"Because she comes in once a year to learn if we've made progress in her daughter's case. It's part of a ritual she follows on the anniversary of Allison's death. Which brings me to the other reason why Trudy is special to everyone at the Twelfth. Every victim deserves justice, and every investigation one-hundred percent dedication, of course, but this case has become personal. It started around the corner from us, literally. Allison and her mother were on their way home from church and separated because Allison wanted to stop by a friend who lived two blocks away and ran ahead. Trudy saw a dark-haired white man approach her daughter and suddenly push her into a delivery van. Witnesses remembered different parts of the van's plate number – turned out it had been stolen from the yard of an extremely disorganized used-car dealer, who didn't notice the theft until we asked him about it. The van was found in a parking garage early next morning, two hours after Allison's remains were discovered in Stuyvesant Square Park. The M.E counted forty-two non-lethal stab wounds from a pocketknife, and the final one to the heart, made by a bigger knife. She died within three hours after her abduction. She was only fourteen."

"Any signs of sexual assault?"

"She was naked, but no, nothing."

"Were there any suspects?"

"Not really. Neither Allison nor Trudy had enemies. We got no usable prints from the van, and hardly anything at all from the body. Most of the witnesses agreed that it was a white man with dark hair, a slight majority placed his age in the mid-thirties, but the rest is pure speculation. We've got five different sketches on file, with faces so lacking in distinction they point to any Tom, Dick or Harry."

"Supplemented by Average Joe and John Q. Public. But one thing's really bugging me – a case like that makes headlines, but I could swear I've never heard about it."

"You probably haven't. The murder happened on September twenty-third, 2001. New York had other things to deal with."

"I see." Dean got up from his chair. "I'm going to familiarize myself with the case then."

Beckett got a file out of a drawer and handed it to him wordlessly. Dean acknowledged it with a nod and went out.

'I'm still not sure if you have your own agenda, Lieutenant,' Beckett thought, leaning back in her chair, 'but it looks like we could make a good team."

* * *

Castle was checking the oven when Kate returned home. Delicious aromas wafted from the kitchen part of the room, filling her with an immediate feeling of content. She dropped her purse and coat on the sofa, walked over to her husband and hugged him.

"That smells like something I should dress up for," she complimented him.

"I'd rather you said 'something I should undress for'," he replied. "But with our guests due within the next fifteen minutes, that's probably just as well. Ouch! Don't poke me! You're endangering the risotto. It will turn into mush if I miss the right moment to turn off the heat."

"Yes, Chef Castle. What is tonight's special of the day?"

"A simple tomato soup for starters, followed by roasted duck breast with fennel and rosemary, accompanied by a risotto with asparagus and leek and a bell pepper salad with raspberry vinaigrette. I've cheated somewhat with the dessert and simply bought ice cream."

"You outdid yourself," Kate endangered the risotto again, this time by kissing the chef. "I absolutely love your surprise."

"Oh, the surprise comes later," Castle announced, slightly out of breath. "And though I hope you'll eat it up, figuratively, it's not food."

"Intriguing. Give me a minute to change into something more comfortable and I'll set the table."

* * *

Martha was the first to arrive, beating Alexis and Haley by two minutes. Using the flurry of hugs and hellos their entrance caused as a distraction, she unobtrusively meandered into her son's office. Once inside she made a beeline to the notebook sitting with its lid opened on the desk. A thin folder was lying next to it, which Martha almost ignored, until she realized that it was labeled 'Heat Lightning'.

"Snooping, Mother?" Castle asked nonchalantly from the door, startling her into bumping against the desk.

"No, dear, why would I?" she lied. "I was just looking for a pen. A friend mentioned a book I should read, and I keep forgetting the title. For some reason it has just come back to me, so decided to write it down immediately. Now it's gone again, thanks to you sneaking up to me like this."

"I apologize. You could text your friend for the book's title, by the way."

"Speaking of books," Martha changed the subject. "I thought the title of your next Nikki Heat novel was 'Burning Heat', not 'Heat Lightning'? Or is this already the beginning of the next one?"

"No, 'Burning Heat' is still on the cooker, so to speak. What you happened to stumble upon – purely by accident – is a short story. And it was supposed to be a surprise I was gonna spring on the four of you after dinner. I want to read it to you and hear what you think about it."

"Darling, that's so sweet. I won't say a word to the others … wait a minute, did you say 'four of you'?"

"Yes, that was the number I came up with the last time I counted."

"But Katherine has read the story already, hasn't she?"

"No, I wanted it to be a surprise for her, too." Castle was a little confused. "Do you think she'd mind?"

"I might," Martha said. "It's one thing to know that other people are reading about your alter egos' hanky-panky but sitting there having it read out aloud to friends or family is something else altogether."

Her son remained silent for several moment.

"You're right," he finally admitted. "I wasn't thinking."

"I hope you'll read it to us some other evening," Martha smiled at him. "Especially if there will be dinner, too."

"The duck!" Castle rushed out of the door. Martha heroically resisted sneaking a peek into 'Heat Lightning' and followed him at a ladylike pace.

* * *

"That was fantastic," Alexis put her napkin down. "I wish I could eat some more, but that would mean dieting for a week, which I'll never be able to do."

"First-rate cooking," Haley nodded. "But tell me, is there a reason for this lavishness? Did I miss a birthday or some other special occasion?"

"Maybe he accepted an extremely boring surveillance job," Alexis suggested. "And now he wants us to take over so he can hang around with young artists."

"Although I'm usually not that easy to bribe, right now I definitely am in danger of letting you talk me into something like that," Haley told Castle. "So what is it?"

"I don't think dinner was a bribe," Kate stated. "I happen to know there's more to come."

"Yes," Castle agreed a little hastily, "ice cream!"

"Why didn't you say that before?" Alexis groaned.

"I think I can manage a tiny scoop," Martha brightly announced, observing a quizzical look on Kate's face. "Which flavors are on offer?"

"We've got Double Chocolate, Crunchy Vanilla, Salted Almond, and Lemongrass & Mint."

Alexis emitted an even loader groan.

"Oh, and Eggnog, of course, even though September is a little early for that."

Alexis wailed.

"Why don't we take a little break before dessert," Kate proposed. "Rick and I clear the table, everyone else tries to find some room for the ice cream."

Having put the leftovers away, she cornered her husband at the dishwasher.

"What's wrong?" she quietly in a low voice.

"Nothing," Castle replied, busying himself with the detergent, thus avoiding eye contact.

"Really? Then why is your mother eye-kicking your shins? And what happened to your surprise? Don't tell me it's the ice cream, 'cause I know it's not!"

"Okay, okay," Castle gave in. "But not here."

He nodded towards the office. Once inside Kate folded her arms.

"What's up?" she demanded.

Castle sighed.

"My plans were a little too rash," he admitted. "You see, I wrote a Nikki Heat short story and was going to read it to all of you tonight. Mother reminded me – quite correctly – that you should have a say in it. I'm sorry for not thinking of it myself."

Kate didn't react right away.

"Is it steamy?" she eventually asked.

"What? Oh, um, there is one scene that could be called that."

"Show me."

Castle leafed quickly through the pages and handed the folder to his wife, indicating the paragraphs in question. Kate read in silence.

"Not too bad," she commented, returning the folder.

"'Not too bad'? That's your verdict?" Castle exclaimed offended and alarmed.

"No, what I meant is that I wouldn't be too embarrassed to hear it read aloud," Kate reassured him. "Especially to people who know that Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook are purely fictional characters. So, go ahead, present your surprise."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. And afterwards you'll hear my verdict."

* * *

"Okay, everybody, as Kate has already told you, there's something else to come," Castle announced. "As it happens, Black Pawn is going to publish a collection of crime short stories titled "New York's Finest" and I've been asked to contribute a Nikki Heat story."

"Did you pick the title?" Haley interrupted.

"No, though I fully approve of it since all the stories center around the NYPD, and I happen to be married to the embodiment of New York's Finest in all its denotations."

"Hear, hear," Alexis chimed in.

"Now I am embarrassed," Kate declared under her breath.

"Though considering the illustrious company I find myself in ..."

"Dad, you've just ruined it."

"… Deaver, DeMille, Robb, Maron, Baxt, just to name a few ..."

"Richard, we got your drift. Get on with it or at least top off my glass."

"... I believe the book's title to be an accurate description of its writers. That said, are you ready for 'Heat Lightning'?"

"Yes," the women dutifully chorused, eyes rolling.

Castle cleared his throat and began: "Nikki Heat had no idea how she would ever get over the loss of Coco, her stuffed crocodile. She, and Coco was definitely a she, had been her companion as long as she could remember, and though five years of dragging around, gnawing on, and cuddling had left their mark on the beloved reptile, Nikki's heart got broken on this fateful day when Coco got lost on Coney Island. Thirty years later Detective Heat was reminded of her anguish as she discovered a scruffy donkey sitting forlornly on a bench opposite the ferry terminal in Battery Park. She picked up the donkey, intending to post a picture of it on Craig's list later on. Had she left it sitting there, she might have become aware of the trouble starting fifty yards away a few seconds earlier and thus been able to change the course of events unfolding over the next days."

* * *

Two weary detectives entered the squad room and trekked over to their desks where Castle had appropriated Esposito's chair, and, coffee in hand, perused several pages bearing the seal of the Medical Examiner's Office.

"Look who's here, bro, working hard," Esposito remarked, coming to a halt just inches from Castle's right shoulder.

"Yeah, almost like us, who spent the morning knocking on doors and checking security tapes," Ryan replied, crowding Castle from the other side.

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?" Castle inquired. "Actually, I would rather have hit the streets with you than sit in my agent's office."

"Next time call me and we'll trade places," Esposito offered. "Having coffee with a good-looking woman in a warm and comfortable room beats slogging through this mean drizzle, door after door slammed in your face."

"Paula is nice to look at," Castle conceded. "But that's no compensation when she endlessly hammers away at you to sell the story of your near-death experience to whoever pays most."

He got up to convey the chair back to the back it was used to.

"Point taken," Esposito sat down and nodded at the M.E.'s report. "From Lanie? Anything helpful?"

"She puts the TOD between nine p.m. and one thirty a.m., though probably closer to midnight," Castle summarized, "and confirms the extinguisher as the murder weapon. Five blows, the first knocking Kayla down, the second either rendering her unconscious or killing her outright. No defensive wounds, and it must have been over within minutes."

"Thank God," Ryan murmured.

"Amen to that," Esposito agreed.

"No signs of recent sexual activity. Last meal, a tuna on rye, eaten two to four hours prior to death. Nothing conspicuous at all about the victim herself, just a normal young girl."

"Then why did she get murdered?" Ryan asked rhetorically. "People don't get killed for being annoying, and that seems to be Kayla's greatest flaw."

"I'm totally with you, partner. We'd been looking at Castle's body down at the morgue years ago."

"Lying right next to Perlmutter's."

"Oh, please, that's not fair." Castle protested. "Even dead I'd merit better company than Perlmutter."

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Castle's head filled with memories of lying in his own blood, preparing to die together with his wife. It must have shown clearly on his face, since Ryan and Esposito suddenly busied themselves with rearranging files on their desks, faces flushed. An awkward silence later, Castle coughed.

"What did your footwork net you?" he asked.

"A whole lot of 'won't get us any further', I'd say," Ryan gloomily replied. "The security tapes at the laundromat, the grocery store, and Best Buy place Diaz, Bryant, and Rutherford where they said they'd been, or in Rutherford's case confirms that she really bought the CD she has the receipt for."

"One neighbor remembered seeing Campbell return home from his run but was a little vague about the time," Esposito added. "Or about the day, for that matter. Campbell takes his running pretty seriously and does it every day, regardless of the weather. Unfortunately for us, she sees him at almost the same time every day, too, so all we got was 'sometime between six twenty and six forty' – not that it makes any difference to our case."

"Did you hear from CSU?"

"Nope, but maybe the captain has," Ryan said. "Wanna go ask her?"

"She's conferring with the Lieutenant. I think I'd better wait for a little while."

"Afraid of the Loo?" Esposito chortled. "Really, Castle, I'd never guessed."

"I don't think he approves of me. Or rather my being here."

"Give him time to get used to you. It takes some," Ryan advised, grinning. "But I've got something you'll like. I called my Uncle Stevie yesterday."

"The former bookie?" Esposito interrupted.

"The former owner of a bar where people talked a lot about sports. I asked him about 'Ruthless Joe Ruiz', whom he dimly remembered for literally trying to make a name for himself by creating his moniker and unsuccessfully faking to go after his knocked down opponent, restraining himself only at the very last moment. Braggadocio at least used to fit the bill."

His partner shot him a look that equally communicated disdain and praise for looking up the word. Ryan smiled and shrugged modestly.

"I so hope he is the murderer," Castle remarked, unaware of their exchange. "I'd even name my Jerk Factor Scale after him."

"What's a 'Jerk Factor Scale'?" Malcolm Dean inquired from behind him. Castle jumped but recovered himself quickly.

"Oh, just my method of assessing suspects," he explained, looking the other man squarely in the eye.

"I see," Dean's face was unreadable. "The Captain wants an update on the Rutherford case."

To Castle's relief, he didn't join them in Beckett's office but went over to Detectives Boyes and Levy, who had another murder case to deal with.

"CSU got back to us," Beckett said, after being brought to speed. "No surprises so far, but they're still on it. No prints on the extinguisher or the inner doorknob of the teaching atelier. The outer one was probably wiped clean, too, but with Jensen, Ruiz and the paramedics touching it, that's just an educated guess. The murderer must have gotten blood and brain matter on himself – or herself, there's nothing to indicate the perp's sex – but there are no traces beyond the splatter circle."

"And the connecting door to the apartment?" Esposito asked.

"Only Zamek's prints and one partial, most likely the victim's."

"Does that mean the crazed fan is back in the game?" Ryan pulled a face. "as in Kayla let him into the teaching atelier and was killed because the door to Zamek's place was locked?"

"In keeping with keeping an open mind we shouldn't completely rule it out," Beckett replied. "But I think it's highly unlikely."

"My guess is that Kayla tried the door some other time in her quest to get closer to Zamek." Castle offered. "Any of Ruiz' prints in the studio? He claims he usually doesn't go in there."

"It's a big room, so CSU is still processing prints, but so far the only one's of Ruiz fit his story about checking Kayla's body for a pulse. As do the blood smears on his clothes."

"Did they find the CD Kayla bought?" Ryan checked his notes. "What was it … right, Pearl Jam's 'On the Box'."

"No CD at the scene," Beckett told them, "and since CSU didn't know about it when they did Kayla's room, they just logged the number of CDs without making note of the details."

"So you want us to take another look at them?"

"You read my mind. Castle and I are going with you to talk to Timothy Jensen. I called Halina Zamek on the phone earlier today and she suggested the students' lunch break as the best time for us to come."

* * *

The door to the teaching atelier was opened by Nathan Young. He beckoned them in wordlessly, putting a finger to his lips. Inside, the six remaining students were seated in a semicircle, facing Halina Zamek.

"... no reason to worry if you're not feeling what others may think appropriate," the artist was saying, "don't search for emotions that aren't there. You can only work with what you've got, and you must be absolutely honest about it. The truth is all that matters in your work."

"I couldn't agree more," Beckett in a voice so low even Castle, who stood next to her, barely heard her.

"Now, as usual, take a step back, open your minds to the outside, but don't focus to intensely on trivial things."

With that Halina Zamek got up and left the atelier through the connecting door, acknowledging Beckett, Castle, Ryan, and Esposito with nothing more than a slight nod.

The students reacted in different ways to their arrival. Jim Campbell studiously ignored them, Nicole Bates and Tiffany Bryant stuck their heads together and whispered, casting sidelong glances at them. Kevin Fisher turned around halfway on his chair and watched them with an expression of amused expectation on his face, while Erica Diaz and Tim Jensen both walked a few steps in their direction, the former taking a stance with her arms crossed, glaring at them belligerently, the latter looking like a tenth grader called to the principal's office.

Like any good cop entering a room, Beckett had surveyed her surroundings for potential danger, a habit so ingrained into her nature she wasn't consciously aware of it anymore. She almost did a double take when her eyes swept over the paintings in progress sitting on the easels. The communal motif was Kayla Rutherford's violent death, depicted in a variety of styles and from different perspectives. Timothy Jensen had obviously described the scene in great detail - with the exception of two abstract ones, the paintings re-created the crime scene quite accurately. For a fleeting moment Beckett envisioned a Murder on the Orient Express-style crime, and from the look on Castle's face she deduced that he was thinking along similar lines.

She turned her attention towards the students and got theirs by clearing her throat.

"Goof afternoon," she said. "Most of you have met Detective Ryan and Detective Esposito. I am Captain Beckett, this is Mr. Castle. As you know, we are investigating Kayla Rutherford's murder and we need your assistance. We'd like to search your rooms, just to be on the safe side."

"Don't you need a search warrant to do this?" Campbell asked.

"If you give your permission, they don't," Diaz replied. "The question is how much value you put on your rights."

"No, it's not," Fisher disagreed. "Face it, guys, we're all suspects, so they can get those search warrants anytime they want. Therefore the question is whether you think it would make you look guilty if you insist on a warrant or just like a total douche."

"Both of you have a point, "Esposito acknowledged. "Given that each of you had easy access to the atelier getting search warrants won't be a problem, though it takes time to prepare them and explain everything to the judge. Having your permission is simply more convenient and saves us all time. But you are absolutely in your rights to ask for a warrant and we won't hold it in any way against you."

"Can I be there while you go through my things?" Bryant wanted to know.

"Of course."

"Then I've got no problem with it."

"Neither have I," Bates said, and one after the other everyone more or less reluctantly followed suit.

As the students started to troop out in the wake of Esposito and Ryan, Beckett asked Timothy Jensen to stay behind.

"The detectives will not go into your room until you join them," she promised. "It probably won't take long anyway."

She looked over to Nathan Young, who had so far kept himself in the background. The assistant got the hint, mumbled something about getting something to eat and left the atelier. Castle arranged three chairs so he and Beckett faced Jensen without crowding him.

"How are you feeling?" Beckett asked. "Have you recovered a little?"

"I'm alright," Jensen answered in a low voice, tugging at the bandage around his head. "They gave me something against the headache, and Halina has set us some assignments that will help us deal with the experience by using it as a source for our work."

"When we talked yesterday, you were still too shocked to remember anything. I know it's not easy, but could you describe what happened yesterday? Start with when you got up and take us through the morning until you went into the teaching atelier."

Jensen did as he was bidden and told them that he got up at seven fifteen, had a bowl of cereal before going upstairs at eight, and how surprised he was to find the door to the atelier closed but unlocked.

"I thought that maybe one of the others had gotten the date wrong," he said, "but then there was this smell and … and … Kayla … and all that blood ..."

His face had acquired a greenish tint and his breathing was shallow.

"What exactly do you do when you prepare the atelier?" Castle asked, out of curiosity as well as to give Jensen time to regain his equilibrium.

"Oh, it's mostly letting in some air and opening up the supply cabinets. Halina says that air conditioning is great but sterile, and a certain amount of 'living air', as she calls it, is important to the creative process."

"You allotted one hour to open a window?"

"You have to make sure everything is secured beforehand," Jensen's face rapidly changed its color from very pale to very red. "With all the paper and canvasses … and the chairs and easels have to be positioned."

Beckett and Castle simply looked at the squirming man.

"Well, okay, I just like to be alone in here," he finally admitted. "We're not supposed to get started before Halina's here, because once you've begun to work every interruption sets you back. But I wasn't going to work, just … think."

"Which takes us to the moment you came in and saw Kayla," Beckett said. "What details do you recall?"

"All I remember is this," Jensen pointed to a painting on an easel nearby, showing Kayla's dead body as it had lain in her blood, but while her face was recognizable, everything was a little vague and blurry. "When I came to, Mr. Ruiz was there, kneeling next to Kayla."

Looking at his painting didn't disturb him nearly as much as imagining the scene, if at all.

"Let's go back to the day before yesterday then," Beckett decided. "What did you do after you left the atelier?"

"I went out and had dinner at a restaurant in Chinatown."

For some reason Tim Jensen's cheeks turned rosy again and his eyes wouldn't meet Beckett's or Castle's.

"Did you meet with someone at the restaurant?" the latter asked benevolently, expecting the answer to be anything between an artist feuding with Halina Zamek and a cross-dressing hooker specializing in bondage games, and was therefore not prepared for Jensen's reply.

"My wife."

"Your wife," Castle repeated dumbly.

"Megan had arrived that day from Sioux Falls. She's staying with a friend in Fort Greene, so it made sense to meet in China Town."

"What is the name of the restaurant?" Beckett inquired. "And when did you leave it?"

"Golden Something, I don't remember. I've got the address written down somewhere. We left at seven thirty, I think, and went to Megan's friend's place. She – the friend – is a hotel desk clerk and on night shift this week, which gave Meg and me some time alone together."

"How long did you stay in Brooklyn?" Beckett's question caused Jensen to blush even more, which she hadn't believed to be possible. "What time did you arrive back here?"

"I left at twelve thirty and was in my room shortly after one. I don't know a thing about Kayla's death, honestly. You can search my room, take my DNA, and I'll do a lie detector test, if you want me to, but could you leave Megan out of this, please?"

"You know we'll have to talk to your wife, Mr. Jensen" Beckett firmly told him. "There's no way around it."

"Is there something we should know about Megan?" Castle asked though even he couldn't for the life of him think of anything that would explain Jensen's agitation.

"Of course not! Why are you saying that?" Jensen retorted with indignation. "It's just that no one here knows I'm married, not even Halina, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Would Ms. Zamek kick you out if she knew? Are her students supposed to be single?"

"No, she never said anything about it at all, and the only reason I didn't tell her is that I didn't want to put her in a situation where she had to lie. It's the other students I'd rather leave in the dark about Megan. They are hard to deal with as it is, and if they would find out … you see, Meg's not only working to support herself, she's doing a lot of overtime, too, and sends me money now and then. You don't know Tiffany and Nicole, they'd dis Meg as a traitor to Women's lib or something like that every opportunity they'd get. The guys would ridicule me, and Kayla would pester me for romantic details ..."

He broke off in mid-sentence, mortified.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," he said in a small voice. "But you can see why I keep my marriage a secret, can't you?"

"As long as it isn't relevant to our investigation, this information stays between us," Beckett promised. "Please write down your wife's phone number and the address of the friend she's staying with. After that, you should go downstairs so Detectives Ryan and Esposito can search your room. Don't forget to dig out the restaurant's address and give it to the detectives."

"Thank you," Jensen meekly said and did as he was told.

"Looks like we can cross him off our list of suspects," Castle concluded. "Too bad, it would have made a good story – the murderer faints after seeing the results of his handiwork and is thus found next to the body, unintentionally creating an aura of innocence for himself."

"You can always use that version in your next novel," Kate suggested.

"Yeah, maybe."

She detected a certain gloominess in his voice.

"What's up?" she asked in surprise. "That's not your usual reaction when you come across a good story, especially after last night's raving reactions to 'Heat Lightning'. I have to admit though that Martha's comment wasn't as encouraging as you might have expected."

"Are you kidding? 'Your fans will like it' is Mother's equivalent of a Pulitzer. If she ever says 'I like it' about anything I've written, I'll start working on my Thank You Speech for Stockholm right away. Or have her committed. Probably the latter."

"I'm glad to hear she gave your confidence a boost, too," Kate remarked dryly. "Then why the atypical reticence?"

"Too much Châteauneuf-du-Pape last night, I guess," Castle replied casually. "And ice cream."

Kate studied him critically for a moment but decided to let the matter go.

"Let's see if Espo and Ryan have found the CD," she said. "Preferably with bloody prints all over it."

* * *

They met with the two detectives in the lobby.

"We discovered some porn among Campbell's stuff," Ryan informed them. "Thank God I was wearing gloves."

"Eek!" Castle ejaculated. "You're putting off-putting images in my head."

"It's your mind that's creating them, pal."

"What about something pertaining to our case?" Beckett asked.

"Nada. The second-worst thing was an autographed photo of Justin Bieber inside Bates' nightstand," Esposito responded. "But on the other hand, there were several shots of a blond bombshell in Jensen's room."

"His wife," Castle told him. "But that's absolutely hush-hush!"

"I'll tell you why later at the precinct," Beckett said. "Castle's right though, we've promised Jensen to keep that between us. She's his alibi, by the way. According to him they spent most of the evening in Brooklyn."

She got out her cell and checked the address Jensen had given them on the NYPD site.

"Do we know someone at the Eight-Eight?"

"Tara Kingsley, we graduated from the academy together." Ryan replied. "Shall I give her a call and ask her to talk to Ms. Jensen?"

"Hey, I don't mind going myself," Esposito offered. "I could be there in twenty."

"More like forty-five," Castle countered.

"Go ahead, Ryan," Beckett handed him the names and address of Megan Jensen and her friend. "See if Kingsley's on shift, has time, and if she needs me to call her Captain."

While Esposito sulked, his partner took a few steps away from the group and made the call.

He returned two minutes later, pulling a face.

"The good news is, she's willing to do it," he said. "Unfortunately, her Cap is a stickler to procedure, but she hinted that the right kind of bribe would smooth the way."

"And what would that be?" Beckett asked impatiently.

Ryan grinned broadly.

"Your non-participation at the next softball game between the Twelfth and the Eight-Eight."

"Are you serious?" Beckett and Esposito exclaimed in unison.

"Apparently he hates your fastball, not to mention your curveball."

"What about my home runs?" Esposito went from sulky to insulted. "I had an average of point fifty-five last season."

"Do I have to call him myself?"

"Three in the game against the Four-Nine alone."

"He'll take Tara's word for it."

"It's a deal than, albeit an absurd one. Oh, and Espo – don't you see? There's not much a team can do against a home-run machine, but poor batting makes them look bad, even ridiculous."

"Especially if the pitcher is a woman," Castle chimed in, hastily adding, "and the losing team's Captain a chauvinist."

"Well, put like that ..."

"There is no other way," Beckett assured him, while Castle and Ryan nodded vigorously.

"Alright, what's next on our list."

"Did Jensen give you the name and address of a restaurant in Chinatown? Good, that's where he says he met with his wife. Get photos of the two from the South Dakota DMV or whatever department handles driver's licenses there and show these around. Ten to one Jensen's telling the truth, but you'll never know."

"Do you have time for a bite to eat or are you heading back to the precinct straightaway?" Castle asked his wife after Esposito and Ryan had left.

"Kayla Rutherford's parents are coming in at four. Besides, it doesn't really look good if the captain leaves the bridge too often and for too long a time."

* * *

They stepped outside to find that while the drizzle had stopped, the mass of dark clouds forming a seemingly impenetrable barrier between earth and sun seemed ready to burst open for good any moment. Castle looked up into the sea of gray and came to an abrupt halt.

"What?" Beckett asked.

"See the big windows of that loft?" he pointed towards the house on the opposite side of the street.

"Looks promising, I know, but that building is a little lower than this one – all the residents can see of the ateliers are the ceilings," Beckett replied. "The officers who canvassed it checked that out, and whoever's living in the loft either didn't know anything about the murder or wasn't even there when it occurred. You can take a look at the reports yourself, if you want."

"I'm just wondering if they asked the right questions. Could you call the precinct and have someone look up if someone was at home that evening? Please?"

"Not if you don't tell me what exactly you're thinking of. And it better not be numerology."

"I've given up on that train of thought for the moment. Not enough information. But look at the blaze of light coming from the teaching atelier – I bet you notice whether it's on or off in that loft. Subconsciously."

"And if no one questioned them about that specifically ..." Beckett speed-dialed the Twelfth.

"They're mailing the report to me as we speak," she said after ending the call. Her cell pinged seconds later.

Heads close together, the couple read the summarized interview with a certain Ms. Mcdonald, first name Kimberly, age fifty-five, resident of apartment Seven A and, indeed, at home on the evening in question. She had that she had spent the day dozing on her couch convalescing from pneumonia and had not been aware of anything but her own discomfort.

"Although I wish her a speedy recovery, keep your fingers crossed that Ms. Mcdonald is still on sick leave," Beckett told her husband.

"And not contagious," he murmured as he followed her across the street.

* * *

The woman who opened the door of apartment Seven A wore baggy blue sweatpants, a red sweater matching the color of her nose, and a suffering expression.

"Ms. Mcdonald?" Beckett asked, shield in hand.

"With a lowercase 'd'," the woman informed her. Castle had to fight the urge to ask 'which one?'

"Sorry to disturb you again," his wife said politely, "but we would like to ask you some more questions about ..."

"... the murdered girl, I know," Mcdonald wearily interrupted her and stood aside to let them in. "Or has there been another murder?"

She led them over to a sofa and three armchairs grouped around a coffee-table littered with empty tissue paper boxes, magazines, used mugs, and throat lozenges in every imaginable taste. Mcdonald plopped down on the sofa and wrapped herself in a quilt, waving her hand in the general direction of the chairs, one of them already taken by a doll with big brown eyes, a mop of curly blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a perpetual gap-toothed grin.

Interpreting that as an invitation, Beckett and Castle sat down, both of them trying not to breathe in too deeply, as the air was thick with herbal scents, chamomile dominating.

"Fortunately not," Beckett answered. "But our investigation has brought up further questions we hope you might help us with."

"As I've told the guys who came around yesterday – I spent that day sitting right here, and never once looked out of the window."

"We know that. What we're interested in is whether you notice when the lights are turned on and off in the big room across the street."

"Of course I do, the place's lit up brighter than the Yankee stadium. I always wondered what they're doing in there – brain surgery?"

Her laugh at her own crack turned into a hacking cough that had Beckett and Castle flinching.

"At least they keep regular hours," Kimberly Mcdonald went on. "And it only makes a real difference in winter, when it's already dark when they cut the lights."

The next moment she sat up straight.

"Hey, now I see what you're getting at," she beamed. "I'd almost fallen asleep when all of a sudden my living room turned bright. Well, not exactly bright, but it wasn't dark anymore, and I realized the light was coming from across the street."

"Do you have any idea what time it was?" Beckett could practically feel the self-satisfaction building up in her husband.

"Yes, because for once I was grateful for it," Mcdonald replied. "It was a minute or two after nine, because 'The Real Housewives of New York City' had just started. I'd really have hated to miss it. I can even tell you when the lights went off again."

She looked at them expectantly.

"Yes?" Castle prompted.

"During the insurance commercial, where this woman talks about her syncope," their witness exclaimed triumphantly. "You know, where she says 'suddenly the lights go out just like this' and snaps her fingers. And at that very moment the lights over there went out, too. It was soooo spooky."

"I couldn't agree more," Castle said. "Thank you for your time."

"You've been a great help," Beckett added and got up.

As Castle followed suit, his gaze fell on the doll on the chair beside him. Something in his brain clicked.

"That is a 'Giggly Kimmy' Doll," he said and only then took in the large brown eyes and graying curls of the red-nosed woman. "Are you …?"

"President of Todd & Kim Toys," she nodded, "and the model for Giggly Kimmy. My father invented her in the Sixties, along with a number of other toys. I followed in his footsteps, while my twin brother's taking care of the business side of the company. That Kimmy is one of the first ones produced."

She picked the doll up, which - true to its name - giggled loudly and somewhat maniacally. It didn't help that the real 'Kimmy' giggled along with it, the two of them sounding disturbingly alike.

Beckett and Castle hastily bade their good-byes and fled the scene.

"I'm going to have nightmares of this doll," he said with a shudder.

"And I feel as if I've lost my sense of smell forever," she replied.

"But we broke the case wide open. Or may I say, I broke the case wide open?"

"As I've told you over and over again – gloating is so unsexy."

"I'm willing to pay that price, if only for some glorious minutes. And, for the record, you just admitted that I've been right very often."

"I did nothing of the sort."

"You said, and I'm quoting, 'I've told you over and over again', as in 'very often'."

"Meaning that you gloat very often, not that you've always got reason to."

"That's not what I heard."

"Suit yourself."

"I will. Double breasted.

"Ouch."

"Yeah, right, that didn't come out the way I intended it to."

"I think it would be better if we go back to the station to verify Mcdonald's information."

"Good call."

* * *

At a quarter to five, Beckett accompanied Kayla Rutherford's parents and grandfather to the elevator. After shaking hands with them, she went over to where Ryan and Esposito were repositioning the murder board around, which out of respect for Kayla's grieving family had been turned to face the wall.

"Jensen's alibi pans out," Ryan said. "The waiter at the Golden Spices remembered them. Also, Tara called ten minutes ago and told me that Megan Jensen confirmed her husband's statement. According to Tara, Ms. Jensen turned red as a beet talking about their 'activities', but she – Tara – is sure it was simple embarrassment, not a guilty conscience due lying."

"The 'Real Housewives' went on air at nine p.m. sharp," Esposito announced, "and according to the network, the Liberty Blue Shield commercial ran at nine twenty seven."

"That leaves us with just three suspects," Castle summed up. "James Campbell, Kevin Fisher, and Nathan Young."

He turned to Esposito.

"And you're absolutely sure that Ruiz didn't leave the theater mid-play, kill the girl and sneak back in in time for the ovations?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself. Why do you have it in for that guy, Castle?"

"Maybe Ruiz reminds him too much of himself," Ryan offered. "they're both rich and successful ..."

"... sort of self-made men …

"... ruggedly handsome ..."

"... full of themselves ..."

"... married to beautiful women ..." Castle himself intoned and discreetly bumped fists with Esposito. "I disagree with your theory, though. Any similarities between Joe Ruiz and me are superficial and doesn't in any way save him from being a total jerk."

"Are you done?" Beckett asked mildly.

"Yes," Castle and Espo dutifully replied.

"Good, because I just learned something that pushes one of our three remaining suspects up to the top of our list, and by a wide margin."

* * *

"I've heard something interesting from Kayla's grandfather today," Beckett told the man on the other side of the metal table and sat down next to Malcolm Dean. She had asked her Lieutenant to join her in this interrogation for two reasons: to further their working relationship, and because he was an unknown quantity to their suspect.

Nathan Young didn't show any reaction to her statement.

"He told me that Kayla asked him if he could offer you a job as a kind of custodian for his collection. Now why would she do that?"

"Maybe she thought I'd like to move on," Young shrugged his shoulders. "It would probably have meant more money."

"You didn't ask her to speak with her grandfather about you?" Dean inquired.

"No, why would I? I'm happy where I am."

"And the money? I hear you've got to freelance to make ends meet."

"So what? It's always good to have more than one iron in the fire, don't you think? And it's not only about money. I get so much more out of working with Halina."

"It's your plan to keep working as Ms. Zamek's assistant in the near future then," Beckett took over. "For how long? Three years? Five? Ten?"

"Is this some kind of career counseling session or what? I haven't planned that far ahead, there's no need for it. This job opens doors, you see. If I wanted to work at a gallery, I'd get my chance."

"But you don't want to," Dean stated. "Do you like Pearl Jam?"

"Yeah, sure," Young was clearly unsettled by this abrupt chance of topics. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you own an impressive collection of their work, both on vinyl and CD," Beckett said, "well, except for the last album, 'On the Box'."

"I didn't get around to buying it – wait a minute, you've searched my apartment?"

"We had a warrant. And don't worry, it's not like on TV were the police ransacks your place. Our people are quite neat."

"Getting back to that album." It was Dean's turn to talk. "I just can't see a fan like you not getting it the moment it hits the stores."

"Yes … no … I forgot about it, and then Kayla was dead and … what is this about?"

"You know what I think?" Beckett turned to Dean. "He never even opened Kayla's present."

"That would explain his confusion," the Lieutenant solemnly agreed.

"Kayla's ..." Young started but then firmly closed his mouth.

"Let me tell you what we think happened," Beckett made a show of consulting her notes. "Feel free to interrupt if I get the details wrong. I believe that it became clear to Kayla that she hadn't the talent or the vision to be the artist she hoped to be. Just like you six years ago. And just as the job as Halina Zamek's assistant was your lifeline, she decided that it would be hers, too. She started her campaign by trying to find you another job, and I'm sure she tried to talk to Ms. Zamek about it. You could prevent that during the time you were there, but what about the evenings and weekends? And then there was the possibility that Kayla would turn to her grandfather for help, who you knew to be the only reason Kayla got her place among the students. So what could you do? Broach the subject with Ms. Zamek? She might have agreed with Kayla that it would be good for you to take the next step or think it her duty to offer the girl your position. Your position, that brought you as close to Halina Zamek as you could get. Who is more to you than an artist you deeply admire, but the person who gave you the chance to find a new place in the world after she made you realize that your dream of becoming an artist yourself would never come true. Kayla threatened to destroy your world, and you couldn't allow that. What did you tell her to get her to meet you in the atelier? That she'd meet Halina? Or that you'd let her have the job? Whatever it was, it made her go and buy you a present, the new album of your favorite band. And what she got for it was a savage and gory death."

"The rest is speculation, of course," Dean added. "You either brought a change of clothes or wore a second set to begin with. After killing Kayla, or maybe I should say, destroying her, you cleaned up what you absolutely had to, and made yourself presentable. You presumably took the stairs instead of the elevator, which would have been the smart thing to do, and smart you are. Your bloody clothes and the unopened gift ended up in a dumpster somewhere between the atelier and Union City, or maybe in the Hudson. We'll probably never find them, but then we don't need to."

"Blood can leave drops so tiny as to be invisible to the naked eye," Beckett continued. "And while nobody would notice your being short a pair of jeans or sneakers, your satchel is another thing. Therefore Detectives Esposito and Ryan took it to the lab after we arrested you. That's why it took us so long to come and talk to you, we had to wait for the results."

She tapped a folder lying in front of her.

"They found Kayla's blood on it. Just little specks, but enough to put you in prison for a very long time."

Nathan Young raised his head and met her eyes for a moment. Then he looked away again.

"I want a lawyer," he said.

* * *

An hour later, Beckett, Ryan and Esposito watched Nathan Young confessing from the other side of the two-way mirror. Malcolm Dean had surprised them all by asking if he could take Young's statement with Castle joining him in the box. Beckett had agreed to it more readily than Castle himself, who was a little suspicious of Dean's motives, but it seemed to work out well so far.

The ADA had been called in when Young decided, against his lawyer's advice, to make a deal. He'd agreed to make a full confession and accept a sentence of first-degree manslaughter with a minimum of twenty years in prison to keep Halina Zamek from having to testify at a trial. On the whole he confirmed the conclusions drawn by Beckett and her team, adding only that he felt obliged to protect Zamek from taking Kayla on as her assistant since the younger woman would have endangered the artist's work by intruding into her personal space."

"He may have a point, after all we've been told about Kayla," Esposito remarked.

"Do you think he really believes he killed the girl for Zamek's good rather than his own?" Ryan asked.

"Honestly, I've no idea," Beckett admitted. "I guess I can't understand that kind of blind devotion, and of attaching your whole life to someone else's, so if that person is gone your whole world vanishes with them."

"Would you go to prison for twenty years to protect Castle?" Ryan teased her.

"Of course. He'd break me out within a month."

"You're a romantic at heart, Captain Beckett."

"Either that or totally blinded by emotions," Esposito grumbled. "You're getting to be worse than Ryan and Jenny."

He nimbly avoided being clipped by his partner.

"Stop that, or I'm going to change the roster, pairing you off with Levy and Boyes, respectively," Beckett intervened. "Oh, good, they're done in there. That's what I call perfect timing."

The three of them met Castle and Dean at the murder board. The Lieutenant shook his head.

"I admit I'm being a philistine when it comes to the visual arts," he said. "Is this painter really worth his sacrifice? The ADA told me he'd been instructed to offer fifteen years."

"She is a great artist," Castle responded, "who wouldn't have suffered that much from attending a trial. It would have been a new experience she could channel into her work."

"I'm not so sure about that," Beckett voiced her doubts. "She called me while you were in the box and she was genuinely distraught. I think Young was more to her than an exchangeable employee."

"We'll see if she drives up to Sing-Sing to visit him," Esposito declared.

"She was right in one point, though," Castle mused. "The murderer wasn't an artist – at least not by her definition."

* * *

Castle put the empty take-out boxes in the trash while Kate divided what was left in yesterday's lone surviving bottle of wine between to glasses.

"Shall I open another one?" he asked.

"I'm good. After today, one glass is enough to knock me out anyway."

"Before you start on it – there's something I'd like to talk to you about," Castle said a trifle hesitantly, "but if you're too tired ..."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing," Kate replied, sounding unconvincing to her own ears.

"Oh. Look, if it's about my blunder with the short story yesterday ..."

"No, no, that's not it at all."

"Do you want to start or shall I?"

"Go ahead."

Castle sat down next to her on the couch and took a deep breath.

"It is about Nikki Heat," he began. "I'm thinking of retiring her."

When Kate didn't react to that, he continued, talking rapidly.

"I'm going to finish 'Burning Heat' – mostly to fulfill my contract, but that's it. I'm not going to let her die like I did with Derrick Storm, I'll probably send her on a world cruise with Rook. What do you say?"

"I say that it's your decision to take," Kate answered a little perplexed. "If you think it's time to finish the series, you should do so."

"That's all? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Because I don't want you to think that not continuing with Nikki Heat reflects in any way how I feel about us."

Kate took his face between her hands.

"Rick, I never thought about Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook as our alter egos. I know your novels have been influenced by the state of our relationship at the time you were writing them, but when it comes down to it, Heat and Rook are, I don't know, distant cousins."

"So I could have Rook push Nikki off the Empire State Building without you starting to look over your shoulder?"

"He can push her off any landmark he likes, or shoot her, poison her, suffocate her, whatever."

"Good to hear that," he said, smiling at her, "but I think I'll stick to the world cruise. That way I can reactivate them if necessary."

Kate returned his smile, but something in his eyes prevented her from letting the matter go.

"How much has what happened to us to do with your decision?" she asked quietly.

"It's hard to say," he answered slowly. "What I know is that reading the chapters of 'Burning Heat' I'd written before Caleb Brown shot us makes me feel hollow now. This could be because putting Heat and Rook in life-threatening situations is getting too close to home, but it could also mean that creating danger for any fictitious character is going to be a problem. Which is bad news for an author of crime novels."

"But you managed to put Heat and Rook in a lot of trouble in 'Heat Lightning'."

"That was hard work."

"Therapy is hard work."

"You think I should go on with Nikki Heat?"

"You'll have to if you're going to finish 'Burning Heat'. But what I meant is that you should try to find out whether the problem is just Nikki Heat or not. When you know, you can decide how to proceed."

"Maybe I should go back to my roots and write a non-series mystery novel."

"Or you could try your hand at another genre. Romance for example, like Jameson Rook."

"Ugh!"

"Just saying."

"Enough of that. New subject. You wanted to talk about something, too, right?"

"It's getting late. Maybe we should postpone it."

"No time like the present."

"Says the king of procrastination."

"Come on, Kate, spit it out."

"Alright. What I wanted to discuss … I mean, I feel …

"What?"

Now it was Kate's turn fill her lungs to capacity.

"I want a baby," she blurted out. "I think."

"You think?" Castle repeated.

"No. I mean yes, I want a baby, I just don't know why. What if we have one and it turns out I didn't want it for the right reasons?"

Castle frowned.

"What reasons are you talking about?" he asked.

"Now you sound like Dr. Burke."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It's disconcerting."

"Seriously, Kate, what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not sure." She rubbed her temples. "Wanting a child just to prove to myself that I'm alive?"

"We are alive, Kate. We survived. And if you just needed proof of that, you'd be bungee-jumping or skydiving or whitewater rafting."

"And if I'm a bad mother?"

Castle studied his wife for a moment.

"What is the most difficult thing in parenting?" he then asked.

Kate thought about it.

"Letting go," she finally answered.

"See? You're already a better parent than many others who have teenagers."

"Not funny."

"No, I mean it. And listen closely now: you are loving, honest, funny, wise, patient, generous, and brave. You are going to be a great mom."

"I guess I don't have to ask you whether you want a baby, too," Kate concluded, smiling.

"I think I already answered that," he replied, his smile crinkling his eyes. "But there are two things I have to say."

"I'm listening."

"The first one is a warning. Having a baby doesn't make you feel alive. It makes you feel dead from lack of sleep."

"Duly noted."

"The other thing is a condition I have to make."

"What condition?"

"No 'Giggly Kimmy'! Deal?"

"Deal!"

Castle got up and offered his hand to Kate.

"Let's get started then."

"You mean now?" Kate asked. "That's kind of sudden. And it's really late. Although ..."

She got up to and whispered something in his ear. His eyebrows went up.

"Alright," he said, "I'll get the feathers."

* * *

_Later_

"The eagle has landed!"


End file.
